Ice Blue (17 page)

“There is another choice.”

“I’ve already thought of that. But no. I’m
thirty-one. I might not get another shot at motherhood. Even if
it’s ballsed up, I’d better take it.”

“I meant there was another choice besides
going it alone.” Hetheridge drew himself up. “Marry me.”

“What?”

He cleared his throat. “I am asking you to do
me the honor of becoming my wife.”

Kate stared at him. Her controlled,
ever-correct Chief didn’t flinch from her gaze. He looked as if he
couldn’t believe the words that had issued from his mouth – but
would go to the block rather than do something as ungallant as take
them back. Instead, he waited for her to speak, hardly seeming to
breathe.

Kate never counted on pity from others, but
that didn’t stop her from dealing it out, especially when awash in
gratitude. This eternal bachelor, relic of a vanished era, had been
kind to her. Now he needed rescuing from his own good
intentions.

“You’re as bad as Bhar.” She managed a
believable laugh. “Lucky for you, I can take a joke. Us married?
And all living here? With Henry breaking your antiques, and Ritchie
camped in front of the telly, and a baby on the way? Hell, my mum
would resurface when she heard the news. You’d have to write her a
check every weekend to keep her away.” Kate gave Hetheridge a
playful shove in the chest, like she would have done to Bhar, had
he posed an equally preposterous suggestion. “Makes marrying Madge
Comfrey worth a re-think, doesn’t it?”

Hetheridge released his breath, giving Kate a
weak smile. “I wouldn’t go that far. Perhaps I spoke without a full
understanding of your family circumstances. But since I did make
the offer, I would never…”

“Relax, Tony. I won’t hold you to it. I’ll be
fine, I promise. And I’d better call a taxi.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“That would be wonderful. Thanks for
everything.”

On impulse, Kate kissed Hetheridge, pressing
her closed lips against his. She half-expected his arms to go
around her, but when she drew back, they were held stiffly at his
sides. She couldn’t interpret the expression in his eyes. Was it
relief? Or disappointment?

Hetheridge returned to Wellegrave House
around two am to find Harvey waiting for him in the kitchen. The
manservant, as he styled himself, was wrapped in an indigo silk
robe embroidered with Chinese dragons. His hair was oily with some
sort of overnight treatment, and his face glistened with
moisturizer. He sat at the cook’s table, nursing a mug of hot
cocoa.

“Lord Hetheridge.” Harvey leapt to his feet.
“Is everything all right?”

“Fine. No need to worry.”

“The young woman…?”

“My junior colleague, DS Wakefield. She
suffered a death in the family, as it were, and required
assistance. I brought her here until she calmed down, then took her
home.”

Harvey studied his face until Hetheridge felt
a flare of anger. Damn the man, did he have to poke his nose into
everything?

“Can I get you something?” Harvey asked.

“No.” Hetheridge strode away without a
backward glance.

When he reached his study, the fire had
dwindled to red embers. Locking the door, Hetheridge went to the
liquor cart, selecting a single-malt scotch. He filled a glass half
full, reconsidered, and filled it to the lip. Loosening his tie, he
carried both glass and decanter to a chair, blew a sigh into the
empty room, and began to drink.

* * *

His skull was attempting to split open,
roughly across the occipital bone, when he reached Scotland Yard at
half-seven the next morning. Mrs. Snell had called him en route, as
had Bhar. Thankfully, he’d insisted Kate take the day for
bereavement leave, or he might be forced to reassure her, too.
Irritated by the concern raised by his tardiness – good God, he’d
surely been late before, hadn’t he? – Hetheridge stalked toward the
lifts. Ignoring the nods and greetings, he gripped his briefcase
and umbrella in each hand, a pair of all-black Hugo Boss sunglasses
(borrowed from Harvey) still shielding his eyes. Hetheridge, who
was famously never ill, feared he might be sick if Mrs. Snell’s
breakfast dishes weren’t cleared by the time he arrived.

The silver serving dishes were gone, he
discovered upon entering his offices, but the odor of eggs, butter,
and coffee remained. Pausing in the doorway, Hetheridge swallowed
hard. He could do this. Instruct Bhar to handle the Rowlands alone,
take a stab at some paperwork or e-mails, and head home at
noon.

Tucking his sunglasses into his overcoat,
Hetheridge opened his office door. Bhar, checking his e-mail by
phone, jumped up and tooted a noisemaker – the kind that sounded
like a fart. He wore a sparkly party hat, and held out a pink one
with sequins to Hetheridge.

“Happy sixtieth! I knew you were hiding at
home, afraid of a surprise party! And I won’t lie, I tried to
organize one. There were no takers. Everyone’s too afraid of
you.”

Pretending not to see the hat Bhar offered,
Hetheridge put down his briefcase and umbrella. A box wrapped in
green and burgundy-striped paper, topped with a gold ribbon,
awaited him on his desk. It was exactly the size of a boxed brass
clock – the sort engraved with name and years of service.
Hetheridge stared at it. Could anyone think he needed another
clock? Or was he so dull, so lifeless, no other token came to
mind?

“Hey. Tony.” Bhar studied his face. “You look
like hell. Are you sick?”

“Hung over,” Hetheridge sighed, removing his
coat and dropping into the chair behind his desk.

Bhar raised his eyebrows. “Is it … turning
sixty?” His solicitude was authentic, and Hetheridge felt his foul
mood lift.

“Only in the sense that a sixty-year-old man
needs to drink less if he plans to work the next morning.” Forcing
a smile, he indicated the green and burgundy-striped gift. “From
you?”

“Forget it,” Bhar said, scooping it up. “Just
a stupid gag, that’s all.”

“I’d quite like a gag.” Hetheridge took the
package from Bhar’s hands. “When you turn forty, it’s all Grim
Reapers and tequila. When you turn fifty, it’s a quiet dinner. When
you turn sixty, it’s just whispers and health questions. If I see a
Grim Reaper today, it’ll quite likely be the genuine article.
Unless there’s one in here?” He shook the box, then pulled off the
ribbon.

“No, don’t open that, it’s stupid,” Bhar
insisted, trying to pull the gift away. “I’ll get you a real
prezzie later. I don’t want you to be angry.”

“I’ll only be angry if it’s a clock, a pen
set, or a tie rack,” Hetheridge said, tearing away the paper.

It was not a boxed brass clock. Nor was it an
executive pen set, or a tie rack. It was, according to the
breathless description on the package, a Real Molded Replica of an
Asian porn star’s nether regions – not just the usual orifice, but
both, which the package copy seemed to regard as a major selling
point. The photos depicted the porn star in question, wanton
expression and flowing black hair, her legs arranged to put the
real life goods on display. This was helpful, since the pink
silicone product visible through the box’s transparent window
hardly looked like a woman’s parts. The card, taped to the box,
said:

The only thing you don’t have is a woman. –
Paul

“Sorry,” Bhar murmured, hands pressed against
his cheeks like a repentant child. “I just wanted to make you
laugh.”

Hetheridge stared at the box. Then he did
laugh, first a dry chuckle, then a real laugh, despite the vicious
thudding in his head.

“Best birthday present I ever had. You keep
it. You can recycle it when Superintendent Jackson’s birthday comes
around. He’ll be overjoyed. And I won’t be going home. After all
the dodging and weaving the Rowlands have done, I’m rather eager to
meet them. I don’t suppose you have any of that stuff for the eyes?
You know, that gets the red out?”

“I do indeed,” Bhar grinned, patting his
jacket pockets until he came up with the bottle. “Never pull an
all-nighter without it. Sure you’re up to this, Chief?”

“Quite sure. And hide that box before we
leave. I don’t want to come back to find Mrs. Snell dead on the
carpet.”

Ginny Rowland was accustomed to control. She
first demonstrated this by not being home when Hetheridge and Bhar
arrived, promptly at nine o’clock, on the doorstep of her Belgravia
home. A maid answered, checked their credentials, and led them into
a mostly white, all contemporary living room. Hetheridge and Bhar
waited for ten minutes before Ginny Rowland swept in – a tall
brunette with long, well-shaped legs shown to best advantage by a
short black skirt. A slim, balding man and two little white dogs
also arrived, trailing in her wake.

“So sorry,” she barked before either man
could fully rise. “But then again, you’ve disrupted my week,
haven’t you? So it’s only fair you wait on me.”

With that, she disappeared again. The slim,
balding man shot Hetheridge and Bhar an inscrutable glance before
following her out of the living room. The dogs also paused, staring
at the detectives with round black eyes. Then they each issued a
defiant bark – an
en garde
, Hetheridge
thought – before trotting after their mistress, nails clicking
against the marble-tiled floor.

“Knockout legs,” Bhar said to Hetheridge.

“I’d expect no less. Ever get confirmation
Venture Perfect is a front for an escort service?”

“No. Thought I might lie about it.”

“Better be sure. She’s playing the
high-handed lady to the hilt.”

“That’s what makes me sure.” Bhar glanced
around the living room, indicating a blood-red statue, twisted to
resemble a pretzel, that served as a focal point in the otherwise
antiseptic space. “Lots of modern art here. Splatter-paintings.
Bits of rubbish on pedestals. What do you make of it?”

“Don’t understand it,” Hetheridge said. “You
mentioned checking on Charlie Fringate’s solvency. Did you check on
the Rowlands’ finances, too?”

“I did. They’re in debt up to their nose
hairs. But would they stand to gain money by killing Malcolm
Comfrey?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it was less a matter
of enrichment and more a matter of not losing everything?”
Hetheridge was surprised at how much he already favored the notion
of Ginny Rowland as Comfrey’s killer, on the strength of that
three-second meeting. His instincts were fully engaged, and he was
grateful. When he was intellectually curious, the ache of a
hangover was far more bearable.

“That’s unacceptable!” Ginny’s voice drifted
back to them, accompanied by the tap of high heels and doggie nails
on smooth hard floors. “Your inefficiency has seriously jeopardized
our banking relationship. I expect to be satisfied in this matter,
and I anticipate an apology from your manager.”

Ginny reentered the living room. Snapped her
snow-white phone closed, she aimed a wide smile at Hetheridge and
Bhar. “Now. Gentlemen. So wonderful to meet you at last.”

Ginny Rowland was a stunning woman, fit for a
photo shoot. She had creamy skin, shoulder-length hair so black it
gleamed, and brilliant blue eyes. Her cheekbones were high, her
nose petite, her lips plump and ideally shaped. In Hetheridge’s
estimation, she was a pretty woman who had been surgically
optimized into a full-blown beauty. There was nothing of reality
about her.

Ginny held out her hand to Hetheridge,
red-lacquered nails bright against her pale skin. She seemed
disappointed when he merely shook her hand; her posture seemed to
anticipate he would bend and kiss it. Turning to Bhar, she put on
the same bright, eager look all over again. The whore’s gift,
Hetheridge thought – to meet every new man, even in rapid
succession, with that enthralled stare, as if she’d waited for him
all her life.

Bhar, ever-quick on the uptake and shameless
about using his foreign appearance for his own amusement, did kiss
her hand, lingering over it with ridiculous ceremony.

“In my country,” he announced in a thick
Indian accent, “a blue-eyed woman is the rarest jewel.”

If he conducts the entire interview with that
accent, I’ll throttle him, Hetheridge thought.

Ginny tossed a coquettish glance over her
shoulder at the slim, balding man. He, along with the two little
white dogs – probably Chihuahuas, but Hetheridge was no judge – had
rejoined them.

“Listen to this, Burt. Flattery from Scotland
Yard. Something for my memoirs, wouldn’t you agree?”

Shrugging, Burt Rowland leaned against the
snowy marble fireplace, arms folded across his chest. He seemed
content to let his wife blaze forth unassisted.

“So where exactly is your native country?”
Ginny asked, smiling on Bhar.

“Clerkenwell, actually,” Bhar admitted,
reassuming his normal way of speaking. “But believe me, you’d be
pretty rare there, too. I’m Detective Sergeant Paul Bhar.”

“Bhar?” she repeated, smile disappearing.
“The one who demanded we return from Provence? I thought I had you
sacked.”

“Not quite. But I did receive a severe
reprimand,” Bhar said cheerfully. “A lesson I won’t soon
forget.”

“Are you the same detective who told poor
Jules you were in the Taliban?”

“Received a written reprimand for that,” Bhar
said.

Ginny’s red lips parted in a dangerous smile.
She transferred her gaze to Hetheridge. “And you’re the gentry,
correct?”

“Anthony Hetheridge.”

“That’s right. Scotland Yard’s own baronet.
Or knight – that’s it, isn’t it? My goodness. You must have
collared an awfully dangerous criminal for the Queen to bestow that
title on you. Good for you! Do I call you Sir Anthony?”

“Just Anthony is fine.” Smiling, Hetheridge
held her gaze as if entranced by her beauty. “Terrible thing,
letting titles get in the way. People are much more interesting
without them. May we sit down?”